


Second Circle

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Smut, Spoilers for Season 7 Finale, implied dean/cas, mentions of past Ruby/Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when a man wakes up in hell?  Well, that depends on whether he's Crowley's guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Circle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SaunterVaguely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/gifts).



> This is for the lovely SaunterVaguely, who drew me Isaac/Stiles fanart in exchange for some Crobby smut. I'm afraid some plot got in the way of pure porn, but I hope you still like it.
> 
> I've never written this pairing before, so I apologize in advance if it sucks.

Bobby hadn't thought much about where he'd wake up – if he woke up at all – after the flames of exorcism had stopped wracking his non-corporeal bones (and really, how in tarnation did that even _work_ ), but if he had, he certainly wouldn't have expected it to be on a cot, in a small room with cheap Formica tiling and bare, beige walls. A fluorescent light buzzed and popped overhead.

 

“Where in the everlivin' hell -”

 

“Ah...a fortuitous turn of words there, love.”

 

He jerks upright to see Crowley sitting by the end of the cot, lounging in a orange, cracked, plastic chair, one leg crossed over the other. He snaps the  _Wall Street Journal_ he's reading closed, and drops it on the floor.

 

“How're you feeling?”

 

Bobby huffs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “So this is what happens when you refuse to go. One way ticket to hell. Figures.” Of course heaven wouldn't give one flying flip that he'd done it to keep his boys going, to not leave them at one of the lowest moments of their lives. That it had ended bad wasn't the point. He'd made the choice with the best of intentions. And he'd do it again, even knowing he'd wind up here.

 

“Oh, no no, love. If Ken Starr made it upstairs, you were a shoe in. I pulled some strings.”

 

“You _hijacked_ me from heaven? You slimy son of a -”

 

“Please. Bobby, unknot your knickers.” Crowley slips off his suit jacket and twists to hang it over the back of the chair. “I did you a favor. State of things right now? Nobody wants to be in heaven, soul or angel alike. It's a war zone.”

 

“Please yourself, you jackass. You don't do favors.”

 

Crowley clucks his tongue. “Come now, love. You know that's not true. I do you all  _kinds_ of favors.” Bobby resolutely ignores the heat on the back of his neck as Crowley continues. “But yes, I do, in fact, have my own reasons. But let's not worry about that now. Let's get you settled.”

 

Like Bobby would ever be stupid enough not to worry about a backstabbing demon's ulterior motives – or even an angel's for that matter. His name is neither Sam nor Dean Winchester. Love his boys he may, but sometimes they're as dumb as a bag of rocks. Bags of rocks with dicks.

 

Before he can spout of an appropriately caustic comment, there's a knock on the door and then it's pushed open. A dark haired woman, dressed in a flawless, expensive looking business suit, pokes her head in. “Ah, he's awake then,” she says, in a crisp British accent. “Are we taking him on tour?”

 

“Of course, love. But in a few minutes. He's still in his cantankerous adjustment phase. We wouldn't want him to hurt any of the demons' feelings just yet.”

 

She nods, and just before closing the door, gives Bobby a wink. “Good to see you, Bobby.”

 

He stares after her. “Was that -”

 

“Ms. Talbot? Hmm, yes. Was pleased to find _that_ one more or less intact when I took over the place. Can't run an efficient operation without some delegation, and you wouldn't believe how bloody idiotic most of this lot are.”

 

“How is she...?” Bobby makes a vague gesture at his body.

 

“We're in hell, love. She can look any way she wants. It's when she's topside she'll have to go looking for a meatsuit. Not all of us are fortunate enough to have angels to give us a quick dusting on the cellular level.”

 

Bobby takes off his baseball cap and puts it back on, disgruntled when he realizes Crowley must have willed that little detailed into existence for him. He doesn't like it when the King of Hell just  _does_ things to do them. He's far more comfortable when Crowley acts like the soulless bastard he is.

 

“Gotta admit,” he finally says “hell ain't quite what I expected. Lot less...” he trails off.

 

“Flames? Screams? Whips and chains? They're still around. Unlike my predecessor, though, my methods are a little more...refined. Torture is so _obvious_ don't you think? Bloody plebeian; bureaucracy, that's what really gets them screaming.” Crowley's eyes have gone a little unfocused, in obvious delight, as he drifts off into silence, but after a second or two, he shakes his head and stands. He unbuttons his cuffs and sets the links on the chair and then begins rolling his sleeves up in a quick, efficient manner.

 

“Because I know you'll want to know, your annoying trio of children succeeded in sending Dick back to purgatory, due mainly to the help of yours truly. The world is safe, once again. Thank God the populace will never know the sheer idiocy of the people that stand between it and oblivion.”

 

Bobby lets the words get dragged from his mouth. “Thank you. They all okay?”

 

He doesn't miss the care Crowley takes in choosing his words. “They're all alive.”

 

“That don't answer my question.”

 

“It doesn't, does it, love? But that's the best I have for you. At least for the moment. Now -” Crowley walks the distance between the chair and where Bobby is seated on the edge of the bed, and smoothly drops to his knees in front of him - “first things first.”

 

Bobby shoves at Crowley's shoulder, ineffectually. “Stop. Ain't interested.”

 

“You know,” Crowley says, almost absentmindedly, as he ignores Bobby and starts to undo his belt buckle. “The Bible calls Lucifer the king of lies, and Renaissance artists regularly painted demons as having forked tongues, indicative of their propensity to lead sinners to their downfall by blatant untruths.”

 

His hands make quick work of the button and zipper of Bobby's jeans. “But the funny thing is, it's not us who can't tell the bloody truth. It's you humans.” He sits back on his heels, all cool, cocky elegance in a $2,000 suit. “Do we have to go through this every time? You want it. You like it. You need it. But if it will make you feel better to whine and moan for a few minutes, so you can square things with your conscience, please, go ahead. Let me know when you're done.” He arches one eyebrow at Bobby before turning his attention to an imaginary spot of lint on his trousers.

 

“It ain't natural.” Bobby says, because it isn't, and the piece of himself that he hates grows bigger and bigger each time he lets it happen.

 

“Excuse number 342 on the list,” Crowley says smoothly. “Of course it isn't natural. That's a bit of the point, isn't it?”

 

“And one day you'll be callin' in the marker. I ain't stupid.”

 

Crowley concedes the point with a nod of his head. “Very likely. I am, after all, what I am. On the other hand, I've never been idiotic enough to think you're stupid. You wouldn't be nearly as interesting if you were. You know that eventually I will try to gain legitimate control of your soul, and I know you will use every trick in the book to keep it from happening. In the interim, though, I am useful to you on occasion, and, on occasion, you are useful to my cause. Can we be done with the bloody preliminaries now? Hell doesn't run itself.”

 

Bobby weighs his options, what little they are. Continue to whinge before eventually giving in – he's honest enough to know that's the inevitable outcome – or go ahead and give in and move on to figuring out why Crowley's actually stuck him in hell and find a way out of it.

 

“ _Balls,_ ” he finally spits out, and lifts his hips so that Crowley can pull his jeans and boxers down.

 

“Indeed,” Crowley leers, before pushing Bobby's knees apart and lowering his head.

 

Bobby figures 300 years of practice makes a man pretty good at this, and Crowley always seems to make it his personal mission to prove that over and over again. Bobby does his best to keep quiet – he hates giving Crowley the satisfaction of knowing he drives him out of his mind – but it's only a matter of minutes before he gives up and just lets go, fisting one hand in the sheets and one in Crowley's hair and groaning through clenched teeth.

 

He bucks up hard, not worrying about giving Crowley more than he can handle. He used to, back when this whole weird arrangement started - although he would never tell Crowley that, because then the idjit might think he  _cared_ or something - but it only took a few times before he realized Crowley liked it, got off on his mouth being flat out used.

 

It's a twisted psychology, and Bobby thinks about it as little as possible. It's only during late nights, and after multiple glasses of whiskey, that he acknowledges he's probably as screwed up in the head as Sam and Dean have ever been about Ruby or Cas. But at least he knows it and doesn't pretend it's all normal.

 

So, it's like that, Bobby thrusting and fucking and cursing, and Crowley doing what has to be wickedly unnatural things with his hands and throat and tongue, and one of these day Bobby's going to do something highly embarrassing, like verbalizing the occasionally worshipful thoughts he has about Crowley's mouth. Luckily, this is not that day.

 

He hasn't gotten over his instinct to warn Crowley, to drag at his hair when he feels his orgasm rushing up on him. “Hey! Hey, dammit! It's -”

 

Crowley, of course, ignores him, because he always ignores him, and then Bobby is coming, body stiffening and jerking and his toes damn well  _curling_ in his boots. Crowley doesn't pull of until Bobby collapses back on the cot and flings his arm over his eyes, chest heaving.

 

“There.” Crowley's voice is always just a little less polished and a little more hoarse after times like these, and he gives Bobby's thigh a light slap before standing. “Feeling better now, aren't you?”

 

Bobby doesn't answer, just flips him off as he catches his breath. He hears Crowley moving around, refastening his cuffs and putting on his jacket. When his heart has returned to a more or less regular rhythm, he sits and hitches his pants back up.

 

“You want me to..uh...” he gestures at Crowley crotch, at his erection that's blatantly obvious through the thin fabric of his slacks.

 

Crowley dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “Later, love. Right now we've got things to do.” He waits for Bobby to get the hint and stand, then he heads toward the door. As he goes to open it, he looks over his shoulder, eyes amused and slightly devious. “Let's go say hello to little Kevin Tran.”

 

_Balls_ .


End file.
